


the ache inside the hate

by tsunderestorm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Trans Male Character, Trans Miklan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24358186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: Miklan can only imagine how perfection feels.
Relationships: Glenn Fraldarius/Miklan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	the ache inside the hate

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little fill for the kink meme prompt "trans Miklan masturbating to thoughts of Glenn" and originally posted [here](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=119260).
> 
> Descriptors for genitals include dick, cunt, hole. Please take a pass on this if those terms bother you!

Glenn Fraldarius.

Glenn _fucking_ Fraldarius.

Unfair, that the only time Miklan gets alone with Glenn anymore is one-on-one sparring on the weekends. Stupid, that he’s beyond furious about it. Academy classes eat up their time: sword and bow seminars for Glenn, heavy armor and lance for himself. He skips them, usually - not that it fucking matters, when he’ll never hold the Lance his Crestless birth deprived him of. The professors don’t give a shit about him, not when there’s been word from dear old dad in Gautier that a new heir, a _more suitable_ heir, an heir with a Crest is on the way to the Academy in a few years. They’ve given up on him. Everyone has.

Except Glenn. Maybe that’s why he’s so infatuated with him. Obsessed. Glenn skips, sometimes, but usually he’s too stuck on making the Fraldarius name proud, too filled with all that Faerghus honor and duty and every inch a _knight_ that Mikan can’t always get him to, can’t cajole or coerce his friend to misbehave _that_ bad.

And so, his time with the object of his affections is limited but goddess, he gorges himself on it like a starving man to a feast. Glenn has perfect footwork, perfect sword steps, a perfect body and on the rare occasions you can score a hit on him, his blood runs strong with that perfect minor Crest. Miklan thinks about the effect of saying a word so much it doesn’t feel real, like the useless poetry his brother loves repeating the same thing over and over… that’s how he feels about Glenn. _Perfect_. He’s not even real. 

His hair is long, never cut, a challenge: catch me if you can. His hands are a bizarre paradox: beautiful, almost pampered, with long nails and thin fingers but the calluses are there, harshing the beauty. Evidence of the hours, days, _years_ of his life he’s spent with a blade in his hand. _Catch me if you can_.

(You never will.)

Miklan _knows_ he never will, he just wishes the nagging voice in his fucking head would cut it out and let him rub one off instead of hissing insults at him, just once. He hates Glenn. He wants him. He’s so viciously, violently, goddess-damned _jealous_ of him and he doesn’t know how that makes him feel besides wanting _. Hungry._ Is it a want to destroy? To possess? 

(As if a man could ever _possess_ Glenn Fraldarius, even a man like him - one who’s blood is curdling into poison, one who’s rotting from the inside out.)

Either way, it’s a craving that has him on edge, a craving that’s eating up his thoughts. His cock throbs when Glenn breezes past him in a dodge and when the little shit gets his sword to Miklan’s throat, the “ _yield, Gautier”_ goes straight to the core of him, leaves him sopping, leaves him huffing out a labored breath with every shift of his weight. Spread, clench together, _no_ , spread wider, imagines his cock against his ass and his fingers plunged inside. 

Glenn is in the baths right now, cleaning up from their training session and Miklan is leaned against the heavy door of the training hall to hold it shut as he tries to bring himself off. He’s frantic, hands possessed of some frenetic desperation, every movement too quick and rough and the only damn way he can get anything out of it. He’s on borrowed time, now. No one is stupid enough to disturb them when it’s just the two of them in here, not when their spars have left broken dummies and snapped lances in their wake, but now that Glenn’s left anyone could walk in and -

_Fuck_ , that shouldn’t make heat blossom in his gut. But it does, and he’s here, and he’s grinding against the fist he’s made between his legs, angry and desperate. He gets a hand down his pants, fully conscious of the fact that he’s being too rough on himself. The laces snap against his hips like bands pulled too tight, and his pants squeeze his thighs too hard when he drags them down. _“You want me, Gautier,”_ Glenn sneers in his mind, “ _admit it. Everyone does, and you’re no different.”_

Miklan grinds the heel of his hand against his mound, hair coarse against his skin and the pressure almost making him cry out. He bites it back, and grinds harder. Glenn might be Duke Fraldarius’ poster boy, Faerghus’ pretty prize, but he’s got a mouth on him that could rival the village’s nastiest brothel girls and that just makes it worse, just makes this all too easy to imagine.

“ _Do you want me to fuck you?_ ” dream-Glenn asks, and Miklan can’t hold it back this time.

“Yes,” he grunts, to the empty training room, to the straw-filled dummies taken apart by Glenn’s hands, to the hilt of the sword previously clutched lovingly in Glenn’s grip. “Fuck, _yes_.”

How does he even begin to unpack this - the craving for Glenn? For Glenn’s hands, for Glenn’s sharp tongue and teeth and all the razor-edged words he keeps within, for Glenn’s body, honed and sharpened, steel against the whetstone. A blade that Miklan would throw himself onto willingly. For Glenn’s cock, which he’s felt the echo of when Glenn presses against him, pins him, holds him down until he _yields_.

Miklan gets two fingers up inside of himself before quickly deciding it’s not enough, so he adds a third. Glenn’s fingers are slimmer, and if he really wanted the reality of him he’d take that into account but right now he just wants to _feel it_ , wants to finger-fuck himself until his thighs tremble and his hole throbs. Thoughts race through his mind, wild horses in fiery fields, nothing he can catch or hold with any substantial grip. He’d start with his mouth, Miklan knows, get him on his knees in play-defeat with the point of his sword that Daddy had crafted special for him beneath the tip of Miklan’s chin. The point so dangerously at Miklan’s throat, live, sharpened steel against sandpaper skin. Miklan imagines taking Glenn in his mouth as he twists his cock between two fingers, spreads his folds in a search for more friction. The thought of sucking Glenn Fraldarius’ cock is almost too much to handle, makes his hole clench. Hungry, wanting. 

Would Glenn fuck his cunt, he wonders? Not the most ideal thing and sure as hell one of the reasons his old man had no use for him as an heir, but damn convenient for a quick, hard fuck. His fingers spread, stretching, heel of his hand pressing hard enough to hurt. Or would Glenn want his ass? Would he want him on his knees and elbows, want to watch his asshole clench and flutter when he lines up his dick to take him like a hound takes a bitch? Miklan rocks his hips forward, grinding against his hand like he’ll die if he doesn’t. He thinks he might. Glenn would probably step on him if he asked, too, get his mound beneath those expensive wyvern-leather boots and _press,_ and that’s the sharpest flash of pleasure yet. He sucks in a breath, fucks himself harder. Inelegant.

The sound is obscene, really, of him fucking his fingers up inside himself, swallowing them up, wet and messy and _goddess_ , if he were back in his room he’d have fingers up his ass, too, getting himself real good and full to thoughts of the boy whose noble birth (unfortunately) dictates that he occupy the quarters right beside his own. 

_Glenn, Glenn, Glenn, Glenn,_ the name repeats in his head, buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps and stinging just the same. He bites his lip so hard it bleeds as warmth gushes out of him, soaking his hand, his wrist, the bunched remains of his trousers and smalls.

With that done, it’s off to the baths, then, where he can look at Glenn. Can stare long and hard at him as the water plasters his silken black hair to his shoulders and back, let the jealousy and the shame creep in like rot taking hold in his gut, a sickening amalgamation of desire and disdain. He _needs_ him.


End file.
